Saturday morning blues.
This morning, having read Down and Out in Paris and London (a slightly conceited memoir), I feel that Leeds in 2022 resounds to a similar beat. At 7am the only folks about are those who clean up from the night before and those who linger in doorways alive or dead: who knows. The litter of fast food containers, dropped food, paper cups: things blowing on the breeze down Eastgate. Wrappers dropped and forgotten as these bodies slumbers, post binge, in doorways half covered and beyond redemption. It's a town which only just hangs on. Without the universities making their six pence worth the town would be as dead as is possible: none of the structures surrounding the city would exist and those areas would appear as decrepit as I see walking through LS7 to venture over the Inner Ring Road flyover to Wade Lane: it wouldn't be dissimilar to Mansfield? On the verges nature keeps reclaiming as much as it is able. The rats and mice, pigeons and gulls do very well on our ledger of refuse...